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“Do you know why the boy would say such a thing?”

“I do not.”

He and his father stared at each other as an audience of the curious gathered.

The Bloodletter said to no one in particular, “It appears as if my son likes to read. As I wish to be well versed in my young’s interests, I should like to be apprised if anyone sees him doing so. I would consider it a personal favor to which a boon of note would be attached.” V’s father pivoted around, grabbed a female by the waist, and dragged her toward the main fire pit. “And now we shall have some sport, soldiers mine! To the pit!”

A rousing cheer rose from the knot of males and the crowd dispersed.

As V watched them all go, he realized he felt no hatred. Usually, when his father’s back turned, Vishous gave free rein to how much he despised the male. Now there was nothing. It was as when he had looked upon the books before holding them out. He felt…nothing.

V glanced down at the male whom he’d beaten. “If you ever come near me again, I shall break both your legs and your arms and make it so you shall never see right once more. Are we clear?”

The male smiled even though his mouth was swelling up as if bee-stung. “What if I transition first?”

V put his hands on his knees and leaned down. “I am my father’s son. Therefore I am capable of anything. No matter my size.”

The boy’s eyes widened, as the truth was no doubt obvious: Disconnected as Vishous was now, there was nothing he could not stomach, no deed he could not accomplish, no means he would not call forth to reach an end.

He was as his father had always been, naught but soulless calculation covered by skin. The son had learned his lesson.

Chapter Twelve

When Jane came to again, it was out of a terrifying dream, one in which something that didn’t exist was in fact alive and well and in the same room with her: She saw her patient’s sharp canine teeth and his mouth at the wrist of a woman and him drinking from a vein.

The hazy, off-kilter images lingered and panicked her like a tarp that moved because there was something under it. Something that would hurt you.

Something that would bite you.

Vampire.

She did not get afraid all that often, but she was scared as she sat up slowly. Looking around the spartan bedroom, she realized with dread that the kidnapping part of things hadn’t been a dream. The rest of it, though? She wasn’t sure what was real and what wasn’t, because her memory had so many holes in it. She remembered operating on the patient. Remembered admitting him to the SICU. Remembered the men abducting her. But after that? Everything was spotty.

As she took a deep breath, she smelled food and saw there was a tray set up next to her chair. Lifting a silver lid off the…Jesus, that was a really nice plate. Imari, like her mother’s had been. Frowning, she noted the meal was gourmet: lamb with baby new potatoes and summer squash. A slice of chocolate cake and a pitcher and a glass were off to the side.

Had they kidnapped Wolfgang Puck as well, for kicks and giggles?

She looked over at her patient.

In the glow from a lamp on the bedside table, he was lying still on black sheets, his eyes closed, his black hair against the pillow, his heavy shoulders showing just above the covers. His respiration was slow and even, his face had color in it, and there was no sheen of fever sweat on him. Although his brows were drawn and his mouth was nothing more than a slash, he looked…revived.

Which was impossible, unless she’d been out cold for a week straight.

Jane stood up stiffly, stretched her arms over her head, and arched to crack her spine back into place. Moving silently, she went over and took the man’s pulse. Even. Strong.

Shit. None of this was logical. None of it. Patients who had been shot and stabbed and who had crashed twice, who then had had open-heart surgery, did not rebound like this. Ever.

Vampire.

Oh, shut up with that.

She glanced at the digital clock on the bedside table and saw the date. Friday.